At the same time,
In an unknown location.
The room was dim, lit by a single exposed bulb that cast uneven shadows along the walls. Glass jars lined the shelves, each one holding something preserved, something vital. Organs suspended in cloudy liquid. Carefully labeled. Carefully collected.
Marilyn Thornhill stood before them, with her broken hand, studying the display with quiet satisfaction.
Everything was falling into place.
The final preparations were nearly complete. Soon, her ancestor would return, and when that moment came, these outcasts—so confident, so careless—would finally burn.
She turned slightly, her voice softening as if she were speaking about something mundane. "Tyler, dear," she said gently, "do you think you could sneak a shotgun out of your father's office?"
She smiled when she said it.
The kind of smile that suggested this wasn't a request.
It was an expectation.
She knew better than to underestimate him.
Whatever Ethan was, he wasn't something she could deal with using the methods she'd relied on before. Knives, claws, brute force—none of those would be enough. Not against a creature who could stop people mid-stride and smile while doing it.
But bullets were different.
Metal didn't care about lineage or supernatural arrogance. Firearms were clean. Final. And she doubted his skin—unnatural as it was—could shrug off high-caliber rounds.
Marylin's gaze lingered on the jars a moment longer before she turned away, already planning the next step.
If she couldn't cut him down the old way, she'd adapt.
After all, monsters learned. And so did she.
Tyler stood at the back of the room, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
He hadn't forgotten.
Not the pain. Not the humiliation. Not the way he was defeated the last time he'd faced Ethan, helpless and exposed. The memory burned hotter than the fear.
His hands curled into fists.
"I can defeat him," Tyler said through his teeth. "If I get another chance."
There was desperation in it. And something else—anger sharpened into resolve.
"Do as I say," Marilyn replied calmly. "Do I need to say it again?"
She finally turned, her expression composed, almost maternal. "You have another job."
Tyler swallowed, nodding despite himself.
She smiled—small, satisfied. As the master of the Hyde, she knew it would obey her orders without hesitation or failure.
***
"So… you're the one who did that?" Enid asked, staring at the three kneeling boys, their signs, the red-stained mess.
"Yeah," Ethan said easily. "They were trying to ruin Rave'N. I figured they deserved a lesson."
Before Enid could respond, Wednesday had already moved closer to the truck. She dipped her finger into the red residue along the hose, examined it for a second—then touched it to her tongue.
She frowned. "Amateur work."
Enid recoiled. "Eww! Wednesday!"
"It's paint," Wednesday said flatly. "They didn't even bother with pig's blood. No commitment to authenticity whatsoever."
Enid stared at the trio, then at the truck. "So… what were they planning to do with all that?"
"What else?" Wednesday replied. "They intended to trigger the fire sprinklers and turn the finale into a red rainstorm. Maximum panic. Minimal imagination."
She glanced back at the kneeling boys. "Unfortunately for them, their plan backfired."
Enid grimaced. "That's horrible. Who does that?" She looked down at her dress, visibly relieved. "I would've been devastated if this got ruined."
She turned toward Ethan, exhaling. "Seriously—thank you."
Enid slipped an arm around him in a quick side hug.
Ethan blinked once, then smiled. "Happy to preserve the evening."
"So," Principal Weems' voice cut in sharply, "you're the one responsible for this?"
She had arrived just behind them. Enid immediately dropped her arm from Ethan's side and straightened, suddenly very interested in the ground.
Ethan turned calmly. "Yes," he said. "Did I do something wrong?"
"Yes," Weems replied coolly. "Instead of creating this scene, you should have notified me or a faculty member."
Ethan tilted his head. "Oh? So I should've called you so you could politely ask them to leave and hope they listened?"
Weems' eyes narrowed.
"These three came here intending to vandalize Rave'N," Ethan continued evenly. "If nothing happened, everyone would think—that they can walk onto Nevermore grounds and do whatever they like."
He gestured toward the kneeling trio, still dripping red paint. "They needed a deterrent. I provided one."
Silence followed.
"If you want to punish someone," Ethan added, "start with them."
Then he stepped past her. "After that, you're welcome to punish me."
He walked away without waiting for a response.
Behind him, Enid exhaled. Wednesday watched Weems' expression cool into calculation.
"Principal Weems," Wednesday said quietly, "your anger appears… misdirected."
"You shouldn't always worry about normie–outcast relations," she continued evenly. "We shouldn't be the ones constantly expected to make exceptions."
Weems didn't respond.
She was too busy realizing that, once again, Ethan Corvin had acted first—and left her to manage the fallout. Not because he was the sponsor of school, but because, irritating as it was, he hadn't actually done anything wrong.
Which meant her next conversation wouldn't be with a student.
It would be with the mayor.
****
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